


All the Stars Fell

by feralis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Gabriel (Good Omens), Gabriel Redemption (Good Omens), Gabriel isn't a dick, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Multi, Other, Psychological Trauma, The medical stuff isn't super in-depth but it IS there, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-04-03 17:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21495916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralis/pseuds/feralis
Summary: Falling is a lot simpler than it used to be. Are you currently rebelling against God, as so determined by the Metatron in Her absence? If no, continue as you were. If yes, please prepare to have your celestial soul, the Grace of the Almighty, et cetera, ripped from your infernal body. You will be transferred to Hell in 3... 2... 1...Have a great day!---Crowley was on his way out of Hell for what he hoped was the last time, fully content to live a life of peace with Aziraphale, free of their respective bosses. Sure, the pining-from-up-close would be a bit of a downer, but he'd had plenty of millennia to practice it. He was in the escalator lobby when the Archangel Gabriel collapsed onto him. Well, he was already on his way out, why not bring Aziraphale's stuffy boss with him?Crowley had the luck of the Devil, if even Lucifer had ever been this much of an unlucky bastard.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Crowley & Gabriel (Good Omens), Eventually - Relationship, Eventually ;_;, Gabriel & Raphael (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 261





	1. by the collar of my shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles from ["Summer Skeletons"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_N92w-pHKc) by Radical Face. My mind decided to become emotionally attached to Gabriel of all characters, which I guess makes sense, if you know that I fell in love with Famine/Pollution five years ago. It's always the side characters...

Crowley was on his way out of Hell when It happened. He’d just finished talking to Beelzebub, making his post-Apocalypse desire to be _ left the Heaven alone _ as clear as possible. He didn’t do anything as stupid as threaten the Prince of Hell, but he did manage to get them to agree to their own Mutual Arrangement: Crowley didn’t bother them, and in return he would live in relative peace. For a few years, at least. Huh, near execution by holy water definitely had its benefits.

So of course, when he was nothing but a brisk walk away from freedom, was when It happened. He’d been having a great time looking around the relatively empty escalator lobby, free of the demons usually scurrying around as they were all stuck in their offices tortured with the worst punishment of all--cancellation paperwork. 

One second, he was thinking about what he could do now that he didn’t have to make everything palatable to the higher ups, distractedly walking into another empty space. Which the next second was suddenly much less empty, i.e. occupied by some other demon’s chest. Crowley felt the same way any regular daydreaming pedestrian walking home from their shitty night job might, if they were having quite a nice stroll home through an empty sidewalk before vaguely sauntering into a sack of potatoes.

Three things happened at once. Crowley opened his mouth to say “Er, I’m sorry,” realized demons don’t apologize, figured to Heaven with it because as far as he was concerned he didn’t answer to anyone anymore, and smelled something strange. 

The smell was difficult to describe. It wasn’t actually the smell that made it so viscerally unpleasant, but some poor sucker in a demonic febreeze commercial would still say “being punched in the nose” was a good description for it. Anthony J. Crowley, on the other hand, was just put into a friendly chokehold by history, feeling about the same way a soldier who was confined to the infirmary after a horrible injury might feel decades later walking into a room smelling like blood and antiseptic. Give or take a few millennia (and substitute celestial body fluids), that was the situation he was now in. 

So Crowley might be forgiven for pausing, his undemonic half-apology stuck in his throat as he remembered how (before his Quite Fashionable Saunter Downwards, Thank You Very Much) he’d desperately tried to heal the Enemy, their bodies trying to restore themselves the only way they knew how as their Holy souls were ripped from their suddenly infernal bodies. 

Strangely, even though he had always failed to take away the pain, it had made it easier when he Fell. At least he’d gotten used to the smell. But most importantly he’d _ tried _ to help them, lost track of how much time he spent doing so, and thus without conscious effort the small emergency first responder in his brain took control.

Crowley’s senses sharpened. This was probably due to the adrenaline, which while making humans, human-shaped demons, and other earthly creatures very, very good at looking for immediate danger, it also made them act like complete morons. _ Fuck you _ , it said, _ we’re going to die, there’s probably a lion somewhere, freeze now and think later! _

So when Crowley only realized that the Archangel Fucking Gabriel had just collapsed forward onto him a full second after it actually happened, he could by most accounts be forgiven for that too.

* * *

“What the fuck,” Hissed Crowley. “Why today? Why now? Why me?”

Gabriel (what the fuck) wasn’t that forthcoming with an answer, still doing a fairly good imitation of a sack full of potatoes.

Mind racing, he tried to maneuver the unresponsive angel into a better position but froze when he felt something liquid running through the back of Gabriel’s charred and burning suit, so different than the last time he’d seen him, cheerfully sending “Aziraphale” to die with the annoying confidence of somebody who was sure everything he did was right. But now, fuck it, when Crowley pulled his hand away they were stained with the same horrible blood he knew so well during the War. Shit. Shitshitshit fuck, damn it all, bless it all but as much as he hated it he knew that this time--unlike all those millenia ago--he’d be bringing his idiot brother with him. At least this time they were heading upward.

Well, he’d better get on that before one of his old colleagues walked into the Hellish lobby and decided to raise a stink (more than was already stinking, being Hell) about it. Shifting Gabriel again, he managed to get him in almost a moveable upright position before he must have accidentally brushed against a raw burn because suddenly Gabriel let out a small cry of pain and tried to lift his head.

Semi-consciousness. Alright, whatever, Crowley could work with that, even though Gabe was still about as useful as… well, as potatoes. Less useful, really. He was completely unreactive to being in Hell, land of the Fallen, Condemned, Damned et cetera, so Crowley took his brief window before the inevitable Righteous Fury of Former Archangel Gabriel to shrug off his overcoat (black, all leather, to match the pair baby seal leather boots in his closet) and maneuver him into it, trying to avoid touching the burns as he clumsily moved his arms into the sleeves. 

_ Hm _ . He looked _ slightly _ more demonic but that haircut screamed “pompous arse angel” like a nosy neighbor trying to tell the whole neighborhood at once what HOA rule you just violated, and frankly Crowley wasn’t sure that that haircut had a cure. Thinking fast, he miracled himself a fashionable shirt he’d see himself wearing, banking on the fact that Hell already thought he was an annoying prick who would definitely use the company card for high-end fashion right after quitting (reasonable, really). The shirt appeared in his hand and in a stroke of absolute genius, he tossed it on Gabriel’s head, obscuring all his hair and half his face from any over curious observers. 

And thus, Crowley and Gabriel escalatored their way out of Hell.

* * *

Unfortunately, the Escalator of Bad Intentions (the way out of Hell but certainly not the way up to Heaven) didn’t magically heal Gabriel, who was just as incoherent as he was before, on the way up. Fortunately, walking a barely-conscious businessman through the financial sector of London in what was clearly somebody else’s jacket and also a shirt over his head didn’t draw so much as a side-eye. Crowley didn’t even have to use his demonic persuasion for that, and despite himself he was impressed. This was why the Armageddon would have been such a bad idea--after 6000 years, humans still managed to surprise him. It was strange. He’d helped create the cosmos, knew some of the deepest secrets of the universe, but humans with their free will would always find something new to invent. 

Some of the things they invented were beautiful, some common, others things even a demon would call evil. And sometimes, they invented “ignoring that strange man carrying that other strange man through downtown London” decades before Crowley would realize his little brother had turned into a self-righteous asshole. If they had learned Heaven had cast Gabriel into Hell like any other routine bureaucratic termination they probably wouldn’t be shocked at all.

But they were made in Her image, weren’t they? Damning anyone who wasn’t perfect was probably in their celestial DNA. 

Crowley breathed out sharply, trying to push back the anger that had surged up. Six thousand years had dulled it, but he supposed that stealing Gabriel from Hell, still smelling like sulfur, blood, and emergency demonic healing was enough to bring it back like a fresh wound.

Finally, they made it to the parking garage. Ugh, that was a long walk. Crowley thought despairingly to the developer he’d convinced to scrap a closer parking garage in favor of some weird hipster smoothie place. He was quite proud of $8 kale smoothies but something told him that he should’ve brought that idea to life on some _ other _ plot of land.

Opening the Bentley’s door, Crowley guided the shaking angel into the passenger seat. Clicking the seatbelt over Gabriel (something Aziraphale, unsurprisingly, miracled into existence after he’d driven with Crowley one time), he climbed into the driver’s seat and frowned when he saw a bit of red on the seat behind Gabriel. Urgh, talk about Archangels being a bloody nuisance. Oh well, he’d miracle it later. 

They reached Crowley’s flat in minutes. That shouldn’t have happened, even with Crowley’s driving habits, because Crowley had taken quite good care in making London traffic Hell on Earth. But, perhaps ineffably, traffic had decided to have a brief sojourn elsewhere. And thus Crowley drove like a snake out of Hell to his flat, parked the Bentley, and stumbled upstairs with an Archangel of Heaven like a man on a mission who’d quite like to know what the mission actually_ is _, thank you very much.

Once inside he pulled some white linens from the closet and, still carrying the Archangel, unfolded his black futon and laid them out. He’d bought the futon years ago in case Aziraphale ever decided to stay the night, but even now that they were spending half their time at the bookshop, half their time over here, and almost all of their time together, Aziraphale hadn’t used the futon once. His angel had never really created a habit of sleeping, but on the memorable occasions he had he’d burrowed into Crowley’s bed and blankets and when Crowley muttered something he’d said, “but my dear, you seem to enjoy sleeping so much I knew this bed must be comfortable. Oh, why are you looking at me like that? You should know there’s room for both of us.” And so Crowley had a small heart attack before climbing into bed with Aziraphale as the futon sat dejected in the other room.

Gabriel, currently being laid down in recovery position by Crowley onto said futon, didn’t know any of this. Both Gabriel and the futon were cool with that. 

Stepping back, Crowley finally took a second look at the Archangel. He was right--burns crisscrossed his body and Crowley was sure he could see blood soaking through the jacket he’d lent him.

Five minutes later had Crowley staring at Gabriel sans the improv disguise. He frowned. The burns seemed less severe around Gabriel’s clothing so they’d probably provided some sort of protective quality… Maybe Gabriel had time for one final miracle between receiving the celestial paperwork and being coldly sent burning to Hell. Not that that was how it happened to Crowley, but out of the millions of angels working in heaven, they couldn’t all be perfect. And so Heaven adapted. Regardless, Gabriel’s clothing had protected him from some of the damage but had paid the price. There were tears and gashes, all under which the exposed skin was red. And, eugh, parts seemed to be burned to the skin or stuck to the blood, and the bleeding looked even worse without the jacket on top. 

Crowley breathed out and gave a quick prayer to the Almighty. He needed to call Aziraphale and let him know what was going on, but he was created to be a healer and not even the Fall could take that away from him. Gabriel needed immediate attention if the injuries weren’t going to get any worse and that made him his immediate priority, disgust at the person Gabriel had grown into alone in Heaven pushed aside with the unshakeable determination of a first responder who’d walked into the original Holy War to heal Heaven and Hell.

He grabbed the apartment’s medical kit and examined the angel. Time to get to work, he thought, muttering invocations while setting up the preliminary healing sigils. This was healing magic, his specialty. Even better, if he was careful neither Heaven nor Hell would notice. First, clothing. Crowley had avoided using demonic miracles thus far, not wanting Gabriel’s name showing up on any Hellish paper trail, so he’d have to do this the hard way. Blood was clotted into the fabric so removing it would start the bleeding fresh, but if he wanted to prevent his burns from becoming infected he needed to get rid of the clothes. Damn i- bless it- fuck it all to Florida.

Absentmindedly talking through what he was doing in case Gabriel regained awareness, he began his work. A considerable amount of swear words, sterilized fabric scissors, gauze, and Neosporin later Gabriel was in nothing but his pants, which Crowley had executively decided to leave on. He’d hesitated when trying to cut off his shirt, almost unable to look at the two deep gashes on his back. Falling wasn’t _ meant _ to be this cruel, at least, nobody had sat down one day and wrote out a sadistic manifesto on how to punish the imperfect angel, but an angel’s wings were holy things, part of God’s love. The Lord giveth just as They taketh away, but sometimes They forgot to provideth the basic medical attention necessary after losing important appendages. 

The holy essence of a Fallen angel was ripped away, too. It’s a funny thing, to feel one day feel Heaven within you, and then wake up the next and feel it missing. Maybe losing their wings was Heaven’s last blessing, because at least then the Fallen knew how exactly to compare losing it to losing a limb. Gabriel was shaking; he hadn’t stopped. And when he woke up Crowley wouldn’t be able to do a thing to fix any of it at all.

He’d tried. He’d helped one or two new demons, would fix their burns and gashes when Hell’s royalty was looking at somebody having an even worse go of it, but he’d never been able to heal everything. He wasn’t surprised; it’s not like there was a cure for Falling. With some effort Crowley had managed to heal the worst of Gabriel’s superficial injuries and add the continuative sigils to the circle. It was nowhere near enough but it would hold for now.

Crowley had to call his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I wrote it all in comic sans.
> 
> Chapter 2 is mostly written, I just have to add a few scenes and edit it, so it _should_ be up soon.
> 
> Come say hi on my [tumblr](http://winterbirb.tumblr.com)!


	2. say your prayers, fall and run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished into the receiver. “Really, my dear, I’ve been worried sick! Oh, do tell me nothing bad happened to you down there. If they hurt you, well, I don’t—” 
> 
> “Angel, hey, it’s okay,” Murmured Crowley. “I’m fine, they didn’t hurt me.” He paused for effect. “But being the Bad Place is kinda the point, angel, bad happenings are a given.” He rushed to assure Aziraphale, who had started worrying again. “No, really, nothing happened. Er,” he said, glancing at Gabriel lying unresponsive on his emergency medical futon. “Nothing much, that is. That’s, uh, actually why I called—”
> 
> “Crowley—!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, that editing took a bit. To everybody who's left a kudos or comment--you're the best! No, really! It's hard to overstate how much I appreciate it.
> 
> Chapter title from [Deserter's Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O78edVvc-p8) by Radical Face. Go look up the lyrics if you want some Celestial War angst :)

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished into the receiver. “Really, my dear, I’ve been worried sick! Oh, do tell me nothing bad happened to you down there. If they hurt you, well, I don’t—” 

“Angel, hey, it’s okay,” Murmured Crowley. “I’m fine, they didn’t hurt me.” He paused for effect. “But being the Bad Place is kinda the point, angel, bad happenings are a given.” He rushed to assure Aziraphale, who had started worrying again. “No, really, nothing happened. Er,” he said, glancing at Gabriel lying unresponsive on his emergency medical futon. “Nothing much, that is. That’s, uh, actually why I called—”

_ “Crowley—!” _

“Aziraphale, angel, no no don’t panic, it went off without a hitch, Beelzebub agreed to leave us alone, I just, ah…” he paused, not knowing what to say. He wasn’t afraid of Aziraphale’s judgment, had known him for too many millennia to fear that, but it was hard, impossible even, to forget how Gabriel had been among the Archangels who so callously wanted to wipe Aziraphale from the universe. It’d been painful seeing Gabriel and Uriel, his little brothers he’d led through the cosmos with wonder in their eyes, become so cruel and distant after so long alone in Heaven. 

He wanted nothing more than to keep Aziraphale safe from that coldness, to keep his smile warm and free from Heaven’s crushing apathy. But more than that, he wanted his angel to know the truth. “I met, bumped into, really, somebody in the Basement lobby, you know, poof, and suddenly a new hire, right, smelling like sulfur and blood and everything. So, I figured, you know, I was already on my way out so it was easy enough—”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, who for some reason sounded fond, or at least how he sounded when he was trying not to call Crowley ‘nice’ or something equally horrible. “You’ve stolen a Fallen angel, haven’t you?” And really, why the Heaven did Aziraphale say things like  _ that _ with maybe-fondness?

“Ah, I mean, ‘stole’ is a little bit harsh, don’t you think? Not like Hell keeps track of everybody, and really, angel, I was doing them a favor, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale, not bothering to answer that rhetorical question, said, “Really, Crowley.” Aziraphale paused. “But, er, this might come across as slightly insensitive, but doesn’t Hell usually have a procedure for this? I’m sure that this is the first time you’ve taken it upon yourself. Or the first time you’ve told me, I suppose,” he said, trailing off.

“Oh, that’s why I’m, ah, doing Hell a favor. He’s insufferable, angel, so really, I’m just saving Dagon the trouble of discorporating him after he opens his mouth.”

“How long have you known him? Because really, dear, I think annoying you this quickly sets some sort of record.”

Crowley sighed. There was no getting around it. “I knew him before he Fell, angel. He’s one of your colleagues, I’m sure you’ve met him too.”

He didn’t talk about his life in Heaven. No demon did. Aziraphale knew more about him than anybody else in the Circles and Spheres, and even he barely knew any of it. Thinking about it too much only led to unwanted feelings. Over the phone, Aziraphale was silent, clearly thinking about what Crowley just admitted.

“Alright then,” He said. “I’m heading over.” The receiver clicked.

He wondered at how relieved he felt.

* * *

Aziraphale stood still in the doorway, staring at Gabriel’s unconscious form. His only expression was faint shock, eyebrows slightly raised, mouth hanging open. 

“Er, angel?” said Crowley, after the silence had reached critical mass.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” said Aziraphale, composing himself slightly. “I’m just a bit surprised, is all. I was sure I was going to see Sandalphon.”

Crowley opened his mouth, tried to say something, and then closed his mouth. He waited a moment then tried again. “I’m sorry?”

“He always was a troublemaker, that one,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley reflexively looked around for any particularly conspicuous Smiting Hands of God. “I’m sure the Almighty has Their reasons for keeping him, of course,” he continued, “but I’ve found that a little bit ineffable, myself.” 

Crowley, who had never met Sandalphon before the fall and considered him a pretty shoddy replacement all things considered, heartily agreed; and, if he weren’t so concerned about the smiting part (because clearly  _ somebody _ up Above was in a bad mood) he would’ve been positively chuffed to hear his angel so openly sassing the Heavenly Bureaucracy.

Oblivious to Crowley’s train of thought Aziraphale trailed off and hesitantly approached the futon, frowning when he caught sight of Gabriel’s injuries. He looked unsettled; Crowley could relate. He felt the same.

He walked up to Aziraphale standing at the edge of the futon and lightly bumped his shoulder. Aziraphale leaned slightly onto his side.

“You’ve already healed some of it, haven’t you?” asked Aziraphale. Crowley was silent, which was answer enough. His angel knew him too well, really. After a beat, Aziraphale said, “I imagine it must have been quite the surprise, really. I’ve never seen him look this bad.”

Crowley had, millennia ago. But that was during the War, when battle loomed blood-red over everyone. He’d healed him back then too which, if he thought about it, was probably the last time he’d seen Gabriel until that fateful trial. ...No, Gabriel had been there when he’d Fell, but Crowley supposed that wasn’t a much better picture.

“Erh,” said Crowley, and then raised his eyebrows as he sensed opportunity. “Yeah, you’re right. This is a record.” He glanced at Aziraphale, who looked suspicious. “He usually looks worse.” Aziraphale glared at him (after all his trouble!) but he was rewarded when he saw Aziraphale also trying to stifle a smile. His day was always better after getting the angel to genuinely smile, something he’d been forced to come to terms with years ago. 

Aziraphale’s expression grew somber again, gaze refocusing on Gabriel. “Do you think we ought to wake him?” he asked. 

“Well, he’s certainly a lot more convenient when he’s asleep,” said Crowley, before looking away and adding, “alright, fine. We can try and wake him up. But—” He paused. Eurgh, demons didn’t do things like  _ talk _ about this sort of thing.

“But?” Encouraged Aziraphale, softly.

Crowley stared at nothing in particular, especially the nothing in particular that was anywhere but Aziraphale’s face. “It’s not easy, angel. Dealing with- with Falling. Almost impossible, it can feel like.” He threw Aziraphale a sardonic smile. “Almost. And somebody like Gabriel, guy’s probably spent the last 6000 years living by the Book. When it comes to coping with having everything Holy taken away? It’s not… ideal.” Looking at the angel in question, Crowley realized that that was probably true, and it suddenly became painful to see the man his baby brother had become, but even more to see him like this, vulnerable and broken after a Fall he’d never wanted.

Eurgh, that was way too emotional. Maybe getting Gabriel’s attention was a good idea after all, and hopefully he’d quickly say something insufferable enough that Crowley’s subconscious classified him as “annoying bastard” again. He abruptly sat on the futon as Aziraphale hovered nervously in the background, Crowley studying the catatonic the angel. Luckily Gabriel hadn’t become fully unconscious, still responding to basic vital checks and still, unfortunately, shaking. 

Crowley couldn’t really blame him. Post-traumatic catatonia, Crowley presumed, as well as psychologically significant shock. It made sense--Falling, even the straightforward way Heaven seemed to have adopted, was a traumatic experience in every way possible. And once Gabriel’s physical and psychological injuries were both accounted for, it was only sensible that his body would try and numb out any stressors, rerouting that energy to emergency vitals. It was a shitty situation, to be sure, but Crowley supposed even celestial bodies had to triage complete psychological breakdown.

Using miracle work to help somebody through stress responses was always complicated, almost impossible for anyone but the patron of Healing. But alas, even if Heaven had decided he didn’t deserve that title, it wasn’t any less true that Crowley was the best at what he did. But not even he had the ability to completely heal somebody’s emotional state. He’d be able to “wake” Gabriel, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

Crowley breathed out, trying to focus on the miracle. For some reason his medical miracles were never commented on by Hell, and he was hoping the pattern continued. Aziraphale had only seen him do this a couple times and it was always faintly embarrassing, the unspoken comment about goodness louder than any unspoken comment ought to be. But, same as always, that would never be enough reason for negligence of his duties, even as officially defunct as they were.

As these thoughts finally took the hint and shuffled to the back of his mind like scorned children, the room became subtly greener and started to fall away from Crowley’s consciousness. The bare walls, the black futon, Aziraphale behind him, and Gabriel staring blankly ahead all slowly disappeared, mentally engulfed with the green of healing magic as he redirected everything in his mind to the task at hand. It was kitty-corner to what humans called a flow state, but much more intense. Sometimes healing was as easy as a veteran croupier dealing a new poker hand; this was someone who’d spent his life building cities out of playing cards adding the finishing touch to a centerpiece castle. 

The nervous system was also something that took the gentlest work. Causing a disconnect between the mental and physical experience might be useful in the short term, but only led, and rightfully so, to more panic in the future. Especially without explanation or agreement. And so Crowley eroded the worst of Gabriel’s panic like a river, a thousand small changes rather than one intrusive push. 

He didn’t know how long he’d taken, but finally he felt the angel begin to drift out of catatonia. Carefully removing himself from the process, Crowley blinked away the vestiges of green in his vision, seeing the same green in Gabriel’s irises fade back to purple. Aziraphale, still somewhat in the distance, was staring.

“Overdid it a bit, eh?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook free of whatever stupor he’d found himself in. “No, my dear, that was…” He blinked. “Whatever you just did, I think I felt some of it. It was very nice.”

“Oh shut  _ up _ , angel.”

Aziraphale just chuckled, the bastard. 

Checking back to Gabriel, Crowley saw him squinting against the daylight. Right, he was probably feeling something akin to a bad hangover. Or, more likely, an angelic concussion with light sensitivity to match. Because Heaven apparently believed in a lot of things, but giving the Fallen a helmet was clearly not one of them. 

Cringing against the light, Gabriel dazedly tried to twist away and raise a shaking hand to block it out, and Crowley could see the moment the amnesia of blind instinct fell away to remembrance as he suddenly fell still and started to make a small keening sound, slowly building into a cry from the back of his throat

Crowley and Aziraphale glanced at each other. “Set up some protection signs,” muttered Crowley. “I’ll stay here.” Aziraphale nodded, looking relieved.

Placing himself firmly in Gabriel’s line of sight, Crowley crouched down in front of him and held his hands up, nonthreatening. “Alright, Gabriel, it’s me, Crowley.” Gabriel only flinched slightly. He cursed to himself, sure the healing miracle had worked but frustrated by how slow external progress was. “I just healed you after practically dragging you here, but you didn’t really give me a lot of notice just coming out of nowhere like that right into Hell’s main office--”

Gabriel suddenly lurched forward like he’d been hit, starting to hyperventilate. Ah, it was probably the H-word that did it. Crowley didn’t know if he actually needed to breathe or if it was psychosomatic only, but it was clearly affecting the angel. “Okay.” He slowly put his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders. “Breathe in with me. Er, right, now breathe out, tell me one thing you can see oh Je _ SUS _ \--” yelled Crowley as Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arms and tried to grapple him into some poorly executed hug attack.

_ “Angel!” _ he called, “I think we have a problem. Is he always like this?”

Aziraphale, currently adding the final touch to the protection circle was for the second time that day struck speechless. Gabriel, meanwhile, had managed to get better hold of Crowley and promptly buried his head in Crowley’s shoulder, shaking.

“What- no- get off me you  _ oaf _ , Aziraphale stop laughing! This isn’t funny!”

The guilty angel tried to respond but looked at them when he was trying to wipe the tears away from his eyes and doubled over again. “Sorry- Crowley, my dear--” He very obviously tried to compose himself again. “I’ve never seen Gabriel like this in my  _ life _ .”

“Not funny!” Crowley repeated, as echoes of his younger brother crying after he accidentally hurt himself among the stars before coming to him for help flickered through his mind like lightning. “I am  _ not _ his emotional support demon! I won’t stand for it!”

This only made Aziraphale laugh harder. “Crowley, you’re  _ my _ ” he giggled, “my emotional support demon.”

Crowley just made a face at him. 

Dear Somebody he was surrounded by absolute lunatics. He should probably count himself in that number; here he was, in his flat, with two angels who were in different kinds of hysterics, and he was giving the Archangel Fucking Gabriel a  _ hug _ as he cried into his arms. What, and he felt like this was becoming the day’s common theme, the  _ fuck _ .

Tenuously patting the Archangel on the back, Crowley winced when he felt the barely-healed gashes, clotted and burnt ichor still wet and remembered with sharp clarity how all this started. One of Heaven’s highest ranking officers had Fallen, and instead of telling literally anyone in Hell about it, Crowley had walked off with him the second he appeared in Hell’s lobby. 

Aziraphale seemed to sense the change in his mood, his laughter slowing down to faint chuckles. Crowley, looking closer, could see how tense he felt, and he supposed he himself wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how to process what was going on. Hell- Heaven- Spheres above and below, obviously nobody in his flat was able to deal with it. 

Meanwhile, Gabriel had quieted and the shaking again slowed. Crowley felt him slowly let go before trying to push himself free. Aziraphale stopped chuckling when he realized what was going on, watching as Gabriel gradually managed to disentangle himself. He still looked listless, beaten down in a way that made Crowley sick at the twisted unfamiliarity. 

“...my apologies,” Gabriel muttered. “That was unbecoming of me. I don’t know what came over m--”

“Oh shut  _ up _ ,” said Crowley.

Gabriel’s mouth clicked shut.

“Wha- I didn’t mean that literally, I didn’t even think that would work! Must be pretty bad, eh, if you’re listening to me of all people.”

Gabriel just half-heartedly glared. Oh goody, he was getting some of his annoying personality back.

He looked down. A white down comforter and pillow set were on what he thought was empty floor, and he sent a silent thanks Aziraphale’s way. He picked up a pillow and set it on the head of the bed before picking up the comforter too under Gabriel’s confused gaze. 

“So, there’s this thing humans do, called sleep” he began. Gabriel looked at him suspiciously. “Congratulations, you’re going to do it.”

The Archangel looked downright petulant. Hey, maybe he could annoy him out of all this inconvenient post-fall trauma and then none of them would ever talk about this again. “I don’t  _ need _ to sleep,” he whined.

“Mm,” Crowley hummed noncommittally. “Doctor’s orders. Trust me, you might think you don’t need it but you do.”

“I don’t trust you,” protested Gabriel. “You’re a  _ demon _ .”

“Yeah, well right now?” said Crowley, “we’re all you’ve got.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Sleeping helps. Won’t fix everything, but makes it a bit better.” He tried to find a tactful way to say that the angel was already falling asleep where he sat and would be getting some damn rest whether he wanted to or not, but decided it was futile.

Gabriel certainly didn’t put up much more of a fight than a few incoherent mumbles, but Crowley didn’t expect him to. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, and Crowley laid the comforter over him.

* * *

He stared at his reflection in the tea Aziraphale prepared. It warmed his hands, and that warmth painted its way up his arms until it made its home in his chest. He tried to focus on that instead of the roaring thoughts in his head. He took another sip.

Aziraphale’s face was taut with tension, and Crowley was suddenly hit with the magnitude of what he’d dragged his angel into, guilt clawing its way out of his throat.

“Angel, I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for, my dear?”

“For dragging you into this. For making you deal with him. For putting you in danger, again…”

Aziraphale looked faintly confused, before his expression brightened with realization. “Really, Crowley,” he chided, “we’ve stopped Armageddon together and survived the punishment, I’m hardly worried about any of that. And Gabriel might be a bit…”

“...of a prick? A total wanker? A--”

“--Gabriel  _ might _ be a little unpleasant to deal with in a professional capacity, but not- not even he deserves to be in pain like that.”

“Yeah,” muttered Crowley, millennia old aches like ghosts across his back, body, soul. “Falling isn’t… it isn’t pleasant.”

Aziraphale reached out to him but paused halfway, as if he thought better of the gesture. “You must be tired too, my dear. Come on, you should get some rest.”

“But--”

“I’ll stay. If Gabriel wakes up, I’ll wake you. You’ve my word.”

Crowley wanted to hesitate, but Aziraphale was right, he was exhausted. His body was fine, but he’d done complicated miracle work that day, and that took its toll on an infernal being. He didn’t want to think about the day anymore, either, wanted to sort everything out in his dreams. He’d told Gabriel the truth; sometimes it helped to just shut off for a while, even when he didn’t need to. Sometimes it helped  _ too _ much, he thought, remembering the lost century. But, in a very human way, it helped.

“Wake me up tomorrow morning,” he said. Aziraphale nodded and refilled his cup of tea in Crowley’s dining room, looking for the first time in decades like a room filled with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the majority consensus is that Gabriel deserves to be laughed at, but Aziraphale isn't trying to be malicious. He's just anxious! This is just a really weird situation for _everyone_...
> 
> Next chapter I think I'm going to start with a flashback to Gabriel's own fall before bringing it back to the present, either from Gabriel's POV or Crowley's. If everything goes as planned, I'll be bringing Beelzebub in the chapter after that! I didn't mean for this to be a slowburn from both Ineffable Ships, but Crowley's still obliviously pining, Gabriel's been semi-lucid for a few minutes tops, and Beelzebub isn't even here yet. Oops
> 
> EDIT: Dang, I didn't even know it was _possible_ to mess up ao3 beginning/end note formatting! Ha, shows how much I know.


	3. welcome home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel falls from heaven. Oops.
> 
> Title from [Welcome Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNz1Fv4I8Wg) by Radical Face:  
_"All my nightmares escaped my head  
Bar the door, please don't let them in  
You were never supposed to leave  
Now my head's splitting at the seams  
And I don't know if I can--"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man... *insert long apology for the wait*  
I appreciate everybody's comments so much. Really. I know I don't update at... um, ideal intervals, but everybody's comments on this kept my spark of momentum alive, so really, thank you. 
> 
> Please don't worry, I'm not abandoning this story! I'm just bad at... writing. So I basically went on hiatus for the entire month of December. Luckily I knew where I wanted to go with this chapter--I planned to cover both Gabriel's Fall and him waking up at the flat, and I almost posted just the Fall, but I got myself to complete the whole thing! This chapter is a little bit longer than 4k so *flutters eyelashes* forgive me?
> 
> Oh, Content Warning ahead for... not self-harm, but something that kind of looks like it? Also, unhealthy emotional repression galore.

They’d spent 6000 years preparing for war against Hell. It was their duty, it was the Great Plan. They’d all done their jobs perfectly! Or, as perfectly as possible, given the circumstances. The third sphere had stepped up to the monumental task of organizing Heaven when the first and second spheres fell out of contact, the Metatron the only remnant of Her voice.

Archangels weren’t made to be rulers, but he’d seen what sort of misery had befallen Heaven when angels felt they had nobody to turn to. The War had taken its toll on everybody, and it would be too easy to let what little they’d won fall apart around them. At first, he, Michael, and Uriel had imitated the absentee Dominions, assigning angels various tasks with a confidence none of them truly had. 

The Dominions never did come back, at least as far as Gabriel could tell. They’d vanished with the rest of the second sphere. 

Time immaterial passed and Gabriel slowly let go of the purpose wound around his soul. He was still a messenger, but only for the important matters. Heaven nowadays simply had so much to attend to.

The Almighty slowly grew silent after humanity was put on Earth, the final note in a symphony of silence. All the Archangels knew they were made for something other than the endless paperwork left in the wake of absentee rulers, but Raphael fell for letting his purpose consume him, daring to question God about the War, so they all learned their lesson, kept their heads down, and prepared for the next War.

* * *

Since the second he’d failed at the airbase Gabriel had been fighting down an unbecoming scowl from his corporeal face. How dare they- how  _ could _ they- the ungrateful little- They’d spent millennia preparing for this, only for it to be ruined by that insubordinate fucking upstart! 

Principality Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate, he mocked to himself. Who did he even think he was? Just because some Christian hacks who decided they knew everything about Heaven decided a Principality was more important than an Archangel, Aziraphale probably thought he could go around doing whatever he wanted to, thought Gabriel. He’d bet he felt real smug when those hierarchies were written, had probably given himself a nice pat on the back for having some dumb humans think he was actually important. 

But Aziraphale, he fumed, had slacked off on Earth for 6000 years after failing to do his  _ one job _ , while the Archangels had spent all their time up in Heaven cleaning up the job the Almighty had left to th-

Gabriel cleanly cut off that train of thought, wrapping it up in a pretty box with a bow on top and neatly stacked it away. He was perfect at that sort of thing.

* * *

Calling off Heaven’s army was easier than he’d thought it would be, back at the airbase. Gabriel was relieved; for some reason he couldn’t quite control the way his voice sounded, and he hoped that none of the other angels had noticed. They probably hadn’t.

But even after he played Heaven’s newsboy well enough to send the message to the important leaders and that looming annoyance was out of his way, Gabriel couldn’t shake the dark mood that had settled over him. 

He saw it in his siblings too, tense glances crackling like lightning around their meetings. It probably had something to do with the endless stacks of paperwork they suddenly had to deal with--truly endless ad the future stretched forever in front of them. 

Gabriel thought about breaking one of the windows in his office and throwing all the paperwork out, turning it all into birds flying away from Heaven. He thought about the responsibility on his shoulders to keep Heaven running and his duty to his fellow angels. He thought about the smell of burning ichor and faces he couldn’t remember and wrapped his thoughts up in their boxes and bows to hide away.

* * *

Gabriel stood still on the top floor of Heaven. He had to remind himself where he was, mind short-circuiting. A few threads on his suit were burned. If he’d been standing any closer to the traitor he would’ve disappeared, he thought, but of course God’s grace- God’s grace-

Unwelcome numbness spread through him, bitter pins and needles in his mind. 

After mocking everything Heaven had done for the war Aziraphale had survived, because She had spared him. There was no other way; no angel could miracle their way out of Hellfire like that.

The traitor’s execution was supposed to wrap up the loose ends, giving them at least something to look back on that made any sort of sense, but he only found more and more unanswered questions. 

Gabriel wanted to scream. He wanted to- not do that. He wanted to pretend none of this had happened and he wanted to stop knowing how impossible that was. 

* * *

Really, he thought he’d done a spectacular job keeping his negative attitude out of the workplace, remaining reliable as he and the others spent all their time keeping Heaven in operation. Sometimes it felt like nothing had changed at all.

He’d been doing such a good job, too. Which was why he didn’t understand what he was doing sitting on the floor of his office, handfuls of feathers in his hands and on the floor. He’d been out of that habit for eighteen hundred years but it was just so  _ easy  _ to lose himself in his thoughts, in the routine of pulling out everything imperfect as he groomed his wings.

With willpower befitting an Archangel he’d broken out of the habit after Michael’s pointed comments about his wings looking unbecomingly ragged--maintaining appearances was important, and Gabriel wasn’t about to lose to bad habits he was too weak to control.

What little good that’d done him, he thought, and shoved away his other racing thoughts to the back of his head. At least when he was focused on cleaning every feather in his wings his mind was empty, but he already felt that annoying soreness that came after he tore them out. It snuck up on him every time.

He looked around at the feathers on the floor. What a  _ mess _ , but he couldn’t find the motivation to push himself off the floor and clean it up. And miracling it away would go on the records…

Somebody knocked on the door three times, sharp and no-nonsense. Right, he had scheduled a meeting up here to talk about reassigning mid-level administrative duties, so he had to get up--

\--something in him howled at the intrusion as he moved up from the floor in one swift motion, professionally smiling at Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. Michael glanced at the feathers then gave Gabriel an indecipherable stare. He was never sure what his sister was truly thinking.

None of the angels said anything about the feathers, only moving to their respective sides at the table and miracling their chairs, impassively sitting down to begin.

* * *

Feathers floated down around them like falling stars. No--falling snow, Gabriel amended. That was a much more fitting metaphor. After all, the stars were still in the sky, but he’d been on Earth during a snowstorm, watching the falling snowflakes turn into a tunnel as he stared right up into the cloud. He stared at the feathers. Snow was a good one, he’d remember that.

But… oh, he smelled something burning, and snow didn’t do that. Snow landed on his face like a starfield, cold melting away. A feather flew past him, burning purple and black with strange energy. Oh, so that was the smell. Did feathers usually do that? He couldn’t remember.

His chair was knocked over behind him, and he distantly noticed the Archangels staring at him. Uriel was stoic. Michael was unreadable. Sandalphon just looked faintly amused. Right, the chair, he was probably making a scene. Was he?

Michael’s mouth moved but he couldn’t hear her over the buzzing in his ears. He tried to listen.

“-briel, what’s gotten into you? You resumed your Angelic duties with expertise after the Fallen were sent to trial without any of this melodrama, what could possibly have you reacting like this now?”

A feather doused in purple fire landed harmlessly on Uriel’s shoulder. Gabriel wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t remember why. Sandalphon cringed away whenever a feather drifted too close, and he wasn’t surprised by that either. He’d seen an Avenging Angel, he detachedly thought, and the flames looked similar. He realized Michael was still speaking.

“--were the calmest one of us, Gabriel, after-” she stopped, “-after Raphael’s trial and… Fall. You were the one who kept everything together, you were the leader we needed, even me.”

He remembered standing in the sidelines of the Trial unable to convince himself it was real, moving like a ghost. The full force of it only hit him when he thought about showing his brother the new bird he’d made but he was surrounded by other angels and could hardly excuse himself for the breakdown he deserved. He sat through the rest of the meeting pushing back the pain in his chest and feeling nothing at all.

Somebody was speaking, and he belatedly realised it was him. “But why did he Fall.” He heard himself say.

Michael paused. “What?”

“Why did he Fall,” repeated Gabriel. The numb distance faded away as unwelcome despair crept through him. “We, we saw it, how these two  _ imbeciles _ ruined  _ everything _ we’ve been working toward, how they went against Her Great Plan, we saw them survive.”

He didn’t want to think about it but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop himself from choking out questions like  _ why, why would She allow this now, how could She be called fair and just and loving if She’d cast away their brother for loving too much? He couldn’t even remember his brother’s face but She didn’t even reprimand the traitors, it felt like a twisted game of poker and he was the only one in the dark-- _

It felt like gravity had given up on him, like someone had taken a scythe to the invisible cord holding him to the ground. He looked down at his feet just to make sure the floor was still there, and his feet were still on it. They were, which was odd, given how the other Archangels were staring at him, blankly horrified. Other than Sandalphon, he supposed, still looking like Sandalphon. 

One of the feathers he’d pulled out of his wing, seeing one small flaw or another, drifted over his shoulder on a new air current. The wing was almost ash, purple fire burning out as the feather lost itself to the fuel. The room had gotten a lot greyer, and Gabriel was briefly annoyed with himself for wearing his nice jacket today. It was from his favorite tailor, and he’d never gotten the hang of miracling Earthly clothes without ruining something strangely innate. Now he would have to find official business on Earth and bring it to a dry cleaners… 

He looked behind him and blinked at the glowing square on the wall, surrounding a sigil he himself had approved a long time ago.

It’s a Law of the Universe WHEREAS: any tedious procedure, no matter what, when t=time (0, t, + ∞ ), that is to say, in the amount of time that is not zero nor infinity while being every amount in between, that is to say, at some point in time if it exists long enough, will have at least one value e, wherein e=employee who fucking loathes doing it AND/OR wants to look productive by fucking around with the system until they find an easier way to do it AND/OR wants to get back to their game of spider solitaire. And thus, efficiency is born--or at least, the work becomes inefficient enough that it’s done by so many different people that all of them walk away only marginally unhappier.

Incidentally, at some point it was agreed that individually trying every angel who had a bad breakup with God was just too much fucking work, so Heaven had said to Hell with it and made Falling an automatic process after asking too many questions.

Everybody was happy to get rid of all that mandatory jury duty, and even if there were a few eyebrows raised at the new rules, nobody had asked any questions about it.

Gabriel stared at the sigil. The weightlessness enveloped him and he knew he had to choose, to stay or to leave. He could take it all back, stay in Heaven while he had the chance, and choose every moment to keep his opinions quiet enough to let him stay in Heaven. Or he could Fall, the final decision. 

Eternity stretched out before him.

Heaven fell away.

* * *

His siblings’ faces were stuck behind his eyes in frozen high-definition horror. Maybe that was his punishment, or maybe his mind was just holding on to what it saw before everything warm in him had gone out. 

So this was what it felt like, to have Grace ripped away.

He tried to find it in himself to care, but he found nothing. 

And suddenly Hell and feeling rose up to meet him, distasteful emotions clawing their way up his throat and choking him as roaring filled his ears and he-

-landed. 

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the warmth. Sounds slowly trickled in; something—a clock?—was rhythmically tocking. The warmth was comforting and the clock made him want to fall back into unconsciousness, but snapshots of memory played behind his eyes like a dream sequence. 

The burning feathers- worried voices- Falling-  _ Hell- _

Landing on a demon...?

Hm. Everything after that felt like a dream out of reach, but this… wasn’t Hell. Much too much space, for one thing. If there was one thing Hell didn’t have it was windows, and wherever he was looked almost like the Upper offices. Oh shit, he was in trouble, wasn’t he? The Metatron was probably about to give him another lecture “from the Almighty” and he’d just nod along like the whole thing wasn’t a farce because he didn’t particularly feel like Falling--

Oh. Huh. It was a bit freeing, knowing that the worst had happened. There wasn’t a lot they could do to him now, barring Hellfire--

Conveniently, his mind ran “angel” “Hellfire” and “punishment” through the word association filter and showed him the trial, the one that the Traitor--against Heaven, at least--survived. Maybe he could learn-

Wait he didn’t have to worry about Hellfire, he was a demon now! ...Damn it. He groaned. That was  _ worse _ . Now they didn’t even need a demon to permanently discorporate him, they could do it themselves. Holy water in heaven was dime-a-dozen, to use a human phrase.

The missing gaps in his memory were strange, but he didn’t bother to try and remember what had happened after he’d arrived at Hell. His mind was probably doing him a favor, and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t want to bother. Instead he steeled himself, letting go of his emotions like he’d done so many times in Heaven, and pushed himself out of the uncomfortable bed(?).

Oh shit, that hurt. Everything hurt, and it took all of his effort to keep himself from falling over again. Breathe in, breathe out, that’s what he told Mary and even though he was an angel- demon- non-human, it helped.

He stood leaning against the wall for a few minutes, acclimating to the pain, before turning toward the door and walking as dignified as possible (not very) to face whatever punishment Heaven had devised.

* * *

Aziraphale reached for his tea, which had gone cold as he carefully flipped through the illustrated Les Miserables, one of the books he’d decided was in good enough condition to keep him company. Oh, the tea, he had such a bad habit of forgetting about his drinks, and he racked his brain for an excuse to miracle it warm again until he remembered that he needn’t excuse himself to Heaven for anything anymore. He took a sip of the now perfectly warm tea and set it gently back on its saucer with a quiet clink.

He turned back to his book--ah, poor Valjean--but had only rested his hand on the page when he heard a sharp inhale from the doorway. He looked up toward the noise, briefly afraid of being taken away before his book-induced trance faded away and he remembered why there was an Archangel in his--er, Crowley’s--doorway.

Former Archangel. 

Hmm, but oh dear, he’d never seen Gabriel look so wan. The man was a certifiable health nut, Aziraphale didn’t care, he knew they all had their bad habits, but it threw him for a minute, seeing the angel who always had an obsessively healthy glow looking like he was about to fall over.

And like he’d seen a ghost, perhaps something worse.

Gabriel wavered between staring blankly at him and looking wide-eyed around the shop, and his face looked waxy. Not that Aziraphale expected him to look particularly glowing, after everything that had happened, but somehow he seemed in worse shape when he was awake than when he’d been barely conscious. 

A little uncharitably, Aziraphale thought that perhaps Gabriel would perhaps look a little bit more lively if he wasn’t staring at him like he was his executioner. Sure, they were never on the best of terms, passing colleagues at best, but this was simply absurd. Maybe he should say something? Gently, Aziraphale closed his book and said, “Ah, Gabriel! It’s good to see you awake--”

“-- _ You… _ ” Gabriel said, an accusing whisper.

Aziraphale was a little bit miffed at being interrupted, but he let it slide. “Ah, pardon?”

“You- you’re here-”

“-I am, yes, Gabriel, are you quite alright?”

“Is this some sort of sick joke?” he continued. Heavens above, thought Aziraphale, the man sounded near manic. Probably warranted, he conceded. Gabriel kept talking, voice raspy and quiet. “It is, isn’t it? You’ve been on Heaven’s side the whole time. And nobody bothered to tell me-” 

Gabriel’s voice was cut off with a thud, and Aziraphale looked in alarm to see him leaning heavily against the wall, shaking. The man was in no shape to be standing, he thought, pushing himself out of his chair. Gabriel flinched when he grew near but Aziraphale was undeterred, slowly guiding him to the other chair at the small kitchen table. His former boss still looked dazed, but his face had since gained a feverish color and he was watching Aziraphale warily as he carefully poured Gabriel a cup of tea from the teapot, smoothly miracling it warm. 

As Aziraphale set down the coaster and cup in front of Gabriel, he expected to hear his standard protest to food and drink, but it never came. Instead, he stared down at the drink, almost-unreadable dread flickering across his face. ...Oh, thought Aziraphale, assessing the situation. Here he was, trying to be a good host toward his guest, when Gabriel probably saw himself as completely at their mercy.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Aziraphale rushed to assure him. “You can just hold it, if you want. It always makes me feel a little bit better, to hold a warm cup of tea. If you hold it up to your face, you can also smell it. Always comforting, that.”

Gabriel seemed to relax a fraction, mutely reaching toward the tea cup. Aziraphale had to hold back a chuckle at how awkwardly Gabriel held the cup, hands clumsily carrying it in a way that would make even the most proper English gentleman wince. Slowly, like he was trying not to spill it (Aziraphale smoothly miracled away what did), he slowly brought the cup up to his face. Gabriel didn’t react after smelling the tea, but did cradle the cup closer to his chest. 

“Thank you,” he quietly said. Aziraphale hummed. “So when,” he asked, like a hanged man, “do you kill me?”

* * *

Principality Aziraphale was looking plainly appalled, and Gabriel couldn’t figure out why. He’d been so angry when he first saw the Not-Traitor sitting there so calmly, but it had joined the raging storm of apathy inside him. So this is how he died, played the fool by Heaven, at Aziraphale’s hand. When the tea was served, he wondered if it was holy water, but it didn’t feel like it. He certainly couldn’t refuse it, however, as much as he didn’t want to drink it, so he steeled himself until the Principality told him to just hold it instead. The warmth crept up his hands, and in the privacy of his own mind he revelled in how it chased away some of the cold.

He was going to die. 

Principality Aziraphale, however, was still staring at him, his face contorted strangely. “I’m not-” he said with horror, “I’m not going to kill you, Gabriel!”

What? “What?”

“You’re not- I’m not going to  _ kill _ you, are you mad?”

“I see,” he said, staring distantly over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m sure whatever punishment Heaven has devised will be just-”

“What? No! You aren’t here to be  _ punished _ , you’ve been through quite enough already, good Lord-”

“-But Heaven-”

Principality Aziraphale looked incredulous. What was he missing? “You were there when Heaven tried to execute me, for goodness’ sake! You do remember that, right?”

“But-”

* * *

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “No buts!” He’d dallied on waking Crowley up, trying not to disorient Gabriel too much, but now was as bad a time as any. “Gabriel, I’m going to wake Crowle, you may know him--”

“--The  _ demon _ ?” 

Aziraphale sighed, choosing not to comment on the, er, demon in the room.. “Yes, and he’s the one who brought you here, so not a peep from you. I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere.”

Gabriel said nothing, so Aziraphale went to Crowley’s bedroom. Hopefully the rest had done him some good, everything had been so stressful lately, Crowley certainly deserved some peace…

After gently rapping on the door he let himself in, marvelling at how Crowley looked when he was asleep, all masks forgotten. His demon persona, and it was a persona, fell away, and the red hair falling around the peaceful expression made him look almost angelic. Probably made his persona a necessity, Aziraphale thought, remembering what it was like down in Hell. But they were on their own side now, and maybe with time, Crowley could act as a choice, not a necessity. 

He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. He touched Crowley’s shoulder, lightly trying to shake him awake, when golden eyes suddenly opened, serpentine pupils narrowing to slits before focusing on Aziraphale and returning to their regular size. 

“Hrng?”

“Crowley, dear,” said Aziraphale, “Gabriel’s in the kitchen.”

“Hgh why is… oh shit,” said Crowley, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. “Right, yeah. And you just left him there?”

“Er, shouldn’t I have?”

Crowley simply raised his eyebrows, and if on cue, Aziraphale heard a thump in the kitchen, followed by suspicious clattering.

“Idiot,” Crowley muttered under his breath. “Alright, angel, time for me to get up, I suppose. A hand?” He reached out his hand, beckoning. Aziraphale obliged, pulling him upright as fashionable day-clothes weaved their way around Crowley’s black t-shirt and boxers. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the display.

“Oh come on, angel,” Crowley whined, “I’ve been working on that trick for ages!”

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice, dear.”

“Oh sod off, you. Come on, let’s go,” he said, and Aziraphale chuckled as they walked toward the kitchen.

* * *

Crowley had to stop himself from copying Aziraphale’s laughter as he walked into the kitchen, where on the ground lay Gabriel, along with the upturned kitchen table and something that, at some point, might have been a tea cup. There was tea pooling on the ground, which supported the tea cup hypothesis, and Gabriel’s hair was dripping. 

Don’t take it personally, he almost said to Aziraphale, Gabriel’s too stubborn to let things heal, always trying to get out of the infirmary before he’s healed. Every time, even after he should have learned. But Crowley caught himself. He didn’t talk about Heaven, and Aziraphale didn’t ask. For the first time in more than a thousand years, he had to stop himself from talking about it.

Instead, he said, “He’s alright. Your table is too.” He snapped his fingers. “There, good as new.” Aziraphale glanced from the now-upright table, tea cup and all, back to Crowley, who winked. Laughing at Aziraphale’s eye-roll, Crowley noticed the pot of tea, kept safe on the counter. He was sure he had mugs in here somewhere…

“The mugs are in the cupboard to the right of the sink, dear.”

Crowley grumbled. It was a testament to… something, how Aziraphale knew his own kitchen better than he did.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Thnk y.”

“Hmmm?”

“I said thank you, angel, light of my life, without whom I would be lost… truly, you are the finder of cups.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Good enough.”

Crowley sipped the tea, surreptitiously looking for some sugar, and looked back at Gabriel, still laying on the ground. He sighed. “‘S’pose we gotta move him.”

Aziraphale looked at Gabriel, unimpressed. “I suppose. Futon?” 

It was funny, he thought, how much everything could change and yet stay the same. Raphael was gone, bitter nostalgia the only remainder of times long ago, when Gabriel would trip and fall among the stars. Time passed and passed until Crowley couldn’t see his past self in the mirror… and yet. And yet, Gabriel was still the patient from fucking Hell.

“Futon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole feather pulling thing would probably be classified as a BFRB (body-focused repetitive behavior) like obsessive nail biting or hair pulling (trichotillomania). I played around with the Greek roots and got the word "pterotillomania" (feather pulling mania), which is apparently an actual word for unhealthy feather-plucking in captive birds! The avian causes can include: poor socialization/absence of parents, isolation, barren environment, and stress. Yup. And here I thought I was just turning "project all my OCD symptoms onto Gabriel" into an extreme sport.
> 
> Come say hi on my [tumblr](http://winterbirb.tumblr.com)!


End file.
